Rising from the Ashes
by N. Y. Smith
Summary: After watching his own life crash and burn, Branch Connally searches for the strength to rise from the ashes. Complete.
1. Cady

Branch Connally tossed his keys on the worn tile of the kitchen counter, pondering for a moment how differently they had sounded when landing on the granite topping the counters in his former home, the one his attorney now lived in. The keys were different, too, squad car long gone, along with the truck so new he'd not even had time to wash it before David Ridges' "suicide" had killed his own career.

He thought on that for a moment before pulling a glass from the cabinet and filling it with water from the tap. The well water tasted of the iron in the soil, but was cool, at least, and lacked the city-water chlorine that now made his stomach burn.

It had been a long drive to and from Billings, and he cracked his back as he'd learned to do in his rodeo days before pulling amber pill vials from the cabinet.

"Take two before bedtime." The sun was setting over the mountains, so it qualified as close to bedtime. He swallowed the pills, bitter in so many ways, and strode out the door to a small corral whose occupant stretched her neck over the top rail.

"At least somebody's happy to see me," he hooked the bridle with his left hand and smoothed his right hand up the mare's chocolate brown face, flicking the flax mane which dangled between her eyes.

The mare followed him to the gate, standing patiently while he entered the corral, and then the small six-stall barn, nuzzling his elbow while he scooped feed from the nearly-empty container into a shallow bucket. She pushed past him into the stall and he closed the door with her inside. He secured the barn door against the predators that still roamed remote ranches. Halfway to the house, his head swam and he hurried, sinking into bed as the medicine plunged him into a heavy sleep.

Morning's first rays sliced through the thin curtains, prompting him to stumble through his morning routine, truly waking only after his first cup of coffee. He downed his morning dose of medication, which did not make him dizzy, but made the world feel flat and distant.

He hurried to the barn, releasing the mare, whose stall was marked Amedei, back into the corral. Ensuring she had sufficient water and feed for the day, he turned the key in the 10 year old pickup, relieved when it started on the second crank, a quick glance at the fuel gauge prompting a prayer he had enough gas for the 25-mile drive to the Falling Water Ranch.

His commute took him through the edge of Durant, past the former offices of Connally, LLC. They were empty now, recently sold along with Barlow's ranch to satisfy the company's debts. He pressed his lips together, acknowledging the irony that it had been the company's ruinous financial state that had likely convinced the jury that he had not killed his own father so he could inherit a fortune. The fortune had evaporated in the construction crash of 2008-Barlow had managed to stave off bankruptcy for 6 years-so Branch had been acquitted.

The ranch house at Falling Water had 3 flagpoles: an American flag in the center, flanked by a Wyoming state flag and a black POW-MIA flag. Gip Howard had been drafted the same year as Walt Longmire and Henry Standing Bear. Like them, his words about his Vietnam experience were sparse and terse. But there were days when Branch would find the rancher backed into a corner, eyes wild and searching for an escape route. Those were the days they would work silently, side-by-side, until Gip would suggest they stop for water. They'd find a shady spot and sit for a minute, each of them scanning the horizon for approaching danger before sheepishly returning to work. It had been Gip who had hooked him up with a PTSD support group in Billings when his COBRA benefits had run out. And it had been Gip who'd offered him a job after the trial.

"Morning," Gip's hat tipped in the slanting rays of the sun as he drained the last drops from his mug. He followed Branch to the ranch's pickup which they had loaded with posts, tools, and rolls of barbed wire the evening before. By day's end, they had replaced three posts and repaired wire on four sections of fence. After they unloaded the truck, Gip proferred a sealed pay envelope and wished him a good weekend. Branch drove back toward Durant, stopping at the bank to pay the weekly portion of his ranch rent, and the power company to pay his utility bill. The gas station depleted the envelope further, leaving just enough for a month's worth of feed for Amedei and a tiny bit of pocket money. He had the feed bag balanced on his shoulder and was stuffing the change into his pocket when he walked straight into Cady Longmire. He managed to hold onto the feed, and caught her before she fell. She grabbed onto his shirt, her touch lighting up nerve endings long dark.

"I'm sorry!"  
"Are you okay?"

They blurted at the same time. Her red hair shone in the late afternoon sun.

"I'm fine."  
"It's okay."

They replied, again in sync.

She paused, looking at him intently before releasing him. He nodded, hat dipping, and walked toward his truck.

"How are you?" He could feel her gaze, scrutinizing his feed-store jeans, shirt, and work boots.

He set the feed in the bed of the pickup, then turned and leaned against the truck, maintaining a buffer zone between them. "How are you?"

She met his gaze, then, just as quickly, cast her eyes downward. "Good. I'm good."

He nodded. "How's the public defender's office?"

"I like it. A lot more than I thought I would." She brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. "Dad says you're working for Gip Howard."

He crossed his arms. "Yeah." He croaked, silently cursing the medicine and its cotton-mouth side effect while climbing into the truck.

Cady followed him, and stood beside the truck, but kept her distance. "Branch, I'm sorry about your dad. I never got to tell you. Things got so complicated, but I'm sorry."

"No reason for you to be sorry." He felt his heartbeat quicken, and willed it to slow. "He caused a lot of misery for many people."

"Especially you." She reached out her hand, but stopped short of touching him. "But he was still your father."

He could not remember how to grin wryly, so he stared at her, all of her, for a long instant before nodding, then pulling away.


	2. Vic

He spent Saturday morning enlarging the corral, but, by noon, the heat had become unbearable, so he jumped in the truck for his afternoon's errand.

He found her-Vic-in her favorite speed trap location, watching her until she finished writing a ticket and released the driver before pulling up behind her, leaving her plenty of space to move, should she want to.

"Hello, Vic."

"What do you want?" she said sharply, but gasped at the sight of her former colleague. He stood with his hands clasped behind him-prison style.

His eyes, always intense, were vacant and unfocused, and his voice was flat, lifeless. "The statute of limitations runs out this week."

"On what?" Her voice was slightly less sharp, but she still kept her hand on her weapon.

He felt his left arm begin to tremble-a side effect of the medicine and the heat, too-and worked to steady it with his right hand. "When I assaulted you."

"And you're here to remind me? Are you insane?" Immediately, she wished to pull back the words.

He chuckled, but his face remained expressionless. "Depends upon whom you ask."

"Why are you here, Branch? Are you asking me not to file charges against you?"

"No," his arm had quieted, but now he was swaying slightly. "I couldn't blame you if you did. I just need to put some things behind me. To move on."

She stared at him.

"Anyway, I wanted you to know." He walked back to his truck, hand on the handle, as her door swung open. He stiffened, wondering what was next.

"Are you high?" She challenged from about 10 feet away, her hand on her weapon.

He hung his head for a moment, then turned to lean against the truck, hands out in plain view. Carefully, he removed a bracelet from his left wrist and left it on the hood of the truck while he moved toward the rear, hands still in view. She inched forward, glancing at the bracelet before tossing it back to him. It fell through his hands.

"That's some serious shit you're on. Does it do any good?"

He picked the bracelet from the ground, dusting it off slowly. "Some."

"You're getting help?" The length of his truck was between them.

"Yeah."

She backed away and motioned for him to get into his truck. He fumbled with the seat belt, then waited while it ground to life. She tapped on the window. "As long as you're getting help, I'm not pressing charges, Branch."

He released a pent-up breath. "Thanks, Vic. And I'm sorry."

She watched him pull away, cautiously, carefully. "So am I, Branch. So am I."


	3. Henry

His second errand of the day was the Red Pony. Mid-afternoon, it was mostly empty, so he was able to find a seat at the end of the bar where his back was against a wall.

"Iced tea." He ordered when Henry appeared. His hand tremor while opening the sugar packet did not escape the bartender's watchful eye.

"Why are you here?" Henry asked.

"Tell me about Gip Howard." The ice shook in the glass as he took a drink. "What's his story?"

"You must ask him," Henry wiped the condensation from the surface. "It is not my tale to tell."

"You and he and Walt Longmire were drafted in the same week." Branch regarded him over the rim of his trembling glass before returning the glass to the bar top. "None of you will talk about it, which means you all were in some deep shit over there."

Henry sighed. "The whole war was shit."

"So how did you and Walt get over it and Gip still has flashbacks?"

Henry tried intimidate the younger man with a glare, but Branch returned the glare, if only briefly, the first fire he'd seen in the other man's eyes in over a year. "Walt and I had it bad enough, but Gip spent a year in a tiger cage in the Iron Triangle."

Henry watched the younger man consider this revelation, eyes blinking before he reached into his pocket and deposited his money on the counter.

"Thanks," Branch Connally said curtly, then pushed his way through the swinging doors.

Henry picked up the glass, startled at the denomination of the payment from a man who, one year earlier, had simply written a check for $100,000: all coins.


	4. Lucian

Sunday morning the sun rose just as it had on Saturday, and Connally rose with the sun, again groggy from the medications that forced him into a dreamless sleep every night. He downed a mug of coffee, then tended to Amedei. Instead of his workday jeans and t-shirt, he showered then dressed in the one suit he still owned. Within 20 minutes he was seated in the back row, southwest corner, of Grace Episcopal Church, just off the square in Durant. The recently-installed priest was a local ranch kid come home-he had been a senior at Absaroka when Branch had been a freshman-after being embedded with the Rangers in Afghanistan as a chaplain. His voice was like the rest of the mass-calm, soothing, a time out of time. Branch sometimes thought about the irony of him in church, but, in the end, accepted the solace it offered his now-bleak existence. He closed his eyes, letting the chant wash over him, wondering, as he held out his hands for the host, how many times he would have to ask God for forgiveness for shooting his father before he actually felt forgiven?

His route home took him past the Methodist Church and he spotted Cady, obviously late, scurrying into the building. His old squad car was parked in front of the Sheriff's office; Ferg must have been on duty. He glanced up and could see the deputy in the window, at his old desk. Mindlessly, he pointed his truck toward the ranch, and was only mildly surprised to see Lucian Connally's truck in his driveway. The former sheriff himself was stretched out on the porch glider, hat over his face.

"I never figured you for a churchgoer, nephew." Neither Lucian nor his hat moved while Branch fumbled with the cranky lock.

"Me, neither." The door finally opened and Lucian stretched languorously before following him inside. "Make yourself at home. I'm gonna change."

Lucian set the paper sack he had brought on the worn countertop, pulling out styrofoam containers and setting them on the table. He rummaged through the cabinets and drawers until he had found two place settings and paper napkins.

Branch, sockfoot and in jeans, was still pulling a t-shirt over his head when he emerged from the bedroom. Lucian stopped short at the sight of the foot-long scar, now faded to a rose-pink, which bisected his nephew's abdomen. Silently he cursed his brother's soul for setting in motion the events that had so damaged what Lucian remembered as a bright, cocky, straw-haired boy who loved football and horses. "Where'd you get the mare?" He sat and helped himself to the fried chicken and vegetables.

"Gip Howard." Branch sat across from his uncle, and loaded his plate, the servings about half the size of his uncle's.

"She registered?" Lucian said around a mouthful of mashed potatoes.

"Yes, sir." He pushed the slaw around a little, but did not take a bite.

"Planning to breed her?" Lucian had moved on to a piece of chicken.

The nephew nodded, finally taking a bite off a chicken thigh.

Lucian finished his meal in silence, noticing that his nephew did not initiate any conversation, and followed the younger man to the corral. "Good conformation," he observed.

"Actually, superior." Branch ran his right hand across the sleek coat, brush following in his left.

Lucian was a cagy old cougar and snagged his nephew's left hand, deftly flipping over the bracelet and reading its inscription. "When did that start?"

Lucian released his hand and Branch continued brushing the mare, working his way around until the horse was between them. She was 16 hands and obscured everything below her owner's eyes. "The morning after I almost blew David Ridges and Barlow out of my dreams with Grand-Dad's Colt. Twenty-nine days ago."

Lucian's head snapped up, eyes pinning his nephew. The young man's eyes found his, then returned to their work. "I'm sorry, boy; I didn't know."

Branch shrugged.

"Do they help? The drugs?"

"Yeah." Branch dropped the brush in its box and hoisted a saddle onto the horse. "I can sleep."

"What about the rest of it?" Lucian handed the cinch to his nephew who tugged it tight. "Treating PTSD takes more than drugs."

Hand tremor returning, the younger man shakily offered the reins to the lawman, who shook his head. "I'm going to Billings twice a week." He stepped up into the saddle. "It's mostly veterans, but there's a couple of other cops." His head dipped. "Ex-cops." He nudged the mare's flanks and she took a few steps.

Lucian opened the gate and his nephew guided the mare into the half-finished corral expansion. He let her trail walk a few times around the perimeter before nudging her into her show gait. After a few more rounds, he nudged her again, and she broke into her pleasure gait, speeding around the newer corral space.

Lucian had propped his hands on the top rail and his right foot on the bottom rail of the original corral, eyes following his nephew, just as they had every day of the trial, just as they had since when he'd seen him around town. Only seeing him in the saddle, back ramrod strait for the first time since he'd been shot, head unbowed, eyes focused and clear did he realize just how much damage David Ridges, and Barlow for that matter, had done.

He watched the young man dismount and walk the horse until she was cool, then brush her.

"She's a fine animal, nephew." The eyes that met Lucian Connally's were dull, with only a trace of the fiery boy, but at least there was a trace. "Your grand-daddy couldn't have picked any better."  
Branch patted the horse on her flank, dropped the brush back in the box, and cracked his back. His gait across the yard to the porch was unsteady, and not from the horse. The house was dark, but cool, and he handed a glass of water to his uncle before sitting at the table. "Thanks for lunch."

"You're welcome." Lucian reseated his hat on his head.

"And thanks for standing by me. Through the trial, and all the other, uh . . ."

"Shit."

"Yeah."

Silence stretched between them. "Do you know why Papa kept that Colt?"

Branch shook his head.

"During the 20s, the drought hit Absaroka county just like the rest of the country. Your great-grandfather, Moses Connally, was days away from losing everything. He bought that Colt with his last $3 and was gonna take it out to the barn and end it right there. But when he got home, my grandma was waiting on him with the news that she was expecting. Right then and there he decided that it didn't matter how many times he failed, he had to show his children how to get back up again. He lost the ranch, then bought it back before he died in 1958, the richest man in Absaroka county." Lucian hooked his thumbs in his vest pockets. "He kept it to remind him that failure means nothing as long as you have family."

"What if you don't even have that? Family?"

"Then do what I never had the cojones to do, nephew: start one."


	5. Walt

Summer had cooled to fall which was rapidly changing to winter. Branch Connally peered out his window at the snowflakes swirling in the porchlight. Amedei was snug in her barn, he was snug in his house, and fresh out of a job. Well, not quite. Gip had cut him back to 2 days a week, which, Branch suspected, was more than the kind-hearted rancher could actually afford. So, he was forced to look for a job during the winter, absolutely the worst time for a ranch hand. He could apply at the casino-surely something was open there-but held that as a final act of desperation. The most recent copy of the Durant Courant was opened to the help wanted ads, which were ominously few. He circled a one, then checked his Indeed and Monster accounts-neither of which had any prospects for an ex-rodeo cowboy, ex-deputy.

He bundled up, and spent the first few hours of daylight finishing the second expansion of the corral which he would need in the spring when Amedei foaled. He'd gambled every penny he could save to breed her on another superior chocolate flax Rocky Mountain horse from north of Bozeman. Gip had loaned him the trailer. A superior foal would sell well at the futurity. If he could hold on that long.

Upon returning to the house, he poured a large mug of coffee-not knowing whether to drink it, or wear it-and settled in front of the fireplace with a copy of The Sun Also Rises. He was enjoying reading again now that he had cut down his daytime meds to a low maintenance dose and he could focus without the blinding headaches.

Gravel popped in the driveway and he felt his panic reflex kick in a bit before he slowed his breathing to minimize the physical effects of the adrenalin rush. Through the windows he could see Walt Longmire's Bullet slowing to a stop. The tall lawman pulled his leather coat close against the biting wind. Branch opened the door before he could knock.

"Branch."

"Walt." He waved his former boss into the room. "Coffee?"

"Please." Longmire walked over to the fire, warming his hands.

Branch returned with a steaming mug. "What brings you out this far?"

Longmire wrapped his hands around the mug, taking a tentative sip. "Do you have any stalls available in your barn?"

"Five. Why?"

"Equine Rescue is taking custody of some malnourished horses. Their stables are full, and I was hoping you could keep them." Another sip. "They'll pay you to board them." He surveyed his former deputy: not broken-like he'd looked for so long-but still bent, still healing. Only the slightest swaying, no more discernible tremors. Eyes focused, but still darting around, scouting for danger.

Branch shoved his hands in his pockets. "You talked to Gip."

"He mentioned it. But that doesn't change the fact that Absaroka Equine Rescue is looking to pay somebody to board the animals. That somebody might as well be you."

"How bad are they?"

"Pretty bad. Doc Shaver's over there now, deciding how many need to be put down."

"Why not Gillespie? He's better with horses."

"Shaver donates his services."

Branch pulled his heaviest coat from the closet, with a wool Stetson. "Then we better get over there."

There was a 45-minute ride. By the time they arrived, one animal had been euthanized and two were still deep in the pasture. "Can you help round them up?"

"Not on foot."

Walt nodded his head toward a beaten-up trailer. Carefully, he backed out his own saddled horse, plus one.

"That's Cady's horse," Branch said flatly. "She okay with this?"

Walt stepped up onto his chestnut. "She suggested it."

Branch hesitated for a moment, then stepped up onto his mount. It was Cady's saddle, too small for him, but would have to do.

"BLM loaned us their trailer. Looks like they've found three of the five." Longmire handed Branch a pair of halters with lead reins, which he wound around the saddle horn.

The younger man scanned the eaten-down pasture, then pointed. "Just under that ridge. A buckskin." They rode and Branch dismounted about 20 feet from the horse who, rather than skittish, seemed relieved. The former deputy slipped the halter onto the weary animal and held lead rein while he inspected the emaciated animal for injuries. "She's in bad shape. But worth a try."

Walt nodded then lead the animal back to the trailer while Branch followed a coyote over the ridge. The snow was getting heavier and light fading when he spotted the last animal, holed up in a brushy grove, pack of coyotes cutting off his escape. Branch nudged Cady's horse into a gallop, bellowing out a warning. All but one coyote scattered, and that one turned to face him, teeth bared. Branch reached for his service weapon, finding nothing, wishing he had not hidden away his grandfather's Colt. He dismounted and continued to shout, charging at the predator who stood his ground again and again. He switched tactics, easing around the scavenger's flank until he was closer to the horse than the coyote. The predator charged and Branch threw down his own horse's reins and threw up both hands, expecting to feel bone-crushing teeth but nothing, and then the report of a weapon. The animal lay at his feet, a bloody hole in its side.

He followed the sound of the shot and saw Walt Longmire lowering his own Colt. Branch could taste the bitter adrenalin rush, and fell to his knees, gasping at first, then deliberately slowing his breathing. The horse staggered and he scampered to it. He was a big horse, 17 hands, at one time strong and proud, but, now, muscle wasted and skin stretched paper-thin over its ribs. He eyed Branch wildly, butting with his head, too weak to strike out with his hooves.

Walt kept a short distance, leaning down from his horse and picking up the reins to Cady's. He watched as Branch inched closer, murmuring to the animal, until he was able to slide the halter over his head. Sadly, he ran his hands over the animal, no broken bones, but deep scratches, and wasting. With a sigh, he walked the animal back over the ridge, coaxing it gently into the trailer. Carefully, he latched the trailer door, walked to the edge of the driveway, and retched drily.

He felt himself pushed onto the tailgate of the Bullet, and his head pushed down between his knees. Walt Longmire's face formed from the mist over his eyes, the lawman squatting in front of him silently. Branched shuddered, then took the offered water bottle, rinsing the bile away before trying a small sip. "Well, that was mortifying," he sat up and studied the bottle in his hands.

Walt stood. "Why?"

Branch stared at his former boss, then hopped off the tailgate and walked to the horsetrailer. He reached inside and caught the halter of the horse they'd just rescued. "He's pretty far gone, Walt. We may not be able to save him."

"Is that what you think?"

"It will be difficult." He focused on the horse. "We'll think we're making progress, but then a setback will come out of nowhere."

"It won't be easy." Longmire stroked the horse's flank. "It will take a lot of strength on his part."

"Strength," the younger man mused. "Does he have enough?"

Longmire faced Branch, eyes which usually averted, locked on his. "Plenty."


	6. Ruby

He opened his mailbox hoping to find that the casserole elf had struck again, as she had every other Monday since he'd been acquitted. It had started in his old house, then followed him to the ranch. Obviously, this was a very-well-informed elf. Sometimes the fare was as simple as a hearty mac and cheese, other times more upscale-a Provençal stew came to mind-before returning to simple comfort food like chicken and dumplings. Comfort food it was, and could be stretched to last a number of days, a welcome addition to his meager table.

Each of the casseroles had come anonymously, in disposable foil containers, still warm from the oven, but tonight`s surprise came in a real dish, one he'd seen many times. Carefully, he repackaged the casserole-an entree he also recognized-into individual serving containers. He stored the containers in the freezer, then washed and dried the dish.

Walking through a blinding snow, he fed the horses before settling in front of the fire to read-this time Louis L'Amour. It was nearly 10 by the time the sage on the page turned purple, and he turned in, foregoing, for the first time, his nightly sedative. He fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow, which was exactly the time he saw the White Warrior trotting toward him with a Winchester. His holster was empty so he turned to run to his truck where Barlow was waiting, both barrels loaded and a gaping hole from which blood pumped in spurts. Turned back toward Ridges who fired, and he felt the burn in his gut whose force spun him back to Barlow whose finger pulled both triggers and the roar of the shotgun blast became the roar of his own hoarse shouting from the corner of his room. He stopped, chest pounding, sweat pouring despite the unheated room, listening for any threatening sound. He heard only the sound of the horses stirring slightly. He let his head loll back against the wall and began the breathing and visualization routines to quell the physical effects of the adrenaline rush of a panic response. After a long while his pulse and breathing returned to normal. He plodded to the kitchen and downed his nightly dose, which plunged him into a dreamless sleep.

He awoke the next morning feeling fuzzy and weak, but between the shocking cold while feeding the horses, two large mugs of coffee, and his morning meds, he felt normal enough to venture out in public to return the casserole dish. The roads had been cleared and he was soon pulling into a parking spot on the court square in Durant. He must have stood 5 minutes in front of the door before opening it and climbing the stairs. The landing had not changed, except Ferg's name now occupied the spot on the directory where his own name had once been. He opened the door to an empty room.

"Can I help you?" A familiar voice called from the file room next to Walt's office.

He took off his hat. "Hello, Ruby."

"Branch!"

"Or should I address you as 'the casserole elf'?"

"'Casserole Queen', if you please," she smiled warmly.

"Amen to that." He held out the empty dish. "Thank you."

"You," covered his hands with her own, for just a moment, "are most welcome."

He savored the touch for a moment then shuffled his feet. "Where is everybody?"

"Well," she added two files to an archive box, replaced the lid, "Walt and Vic are in Cheyenne for a workshop . . ."

He waved her off and toted the box to the shelf she indicated in the file room.

"And Ferg," she led him back to her desk and waved at the visitor's chair, "has driven out to the Jenkins place to take a report about a missing . . ."

"Missing chicken." Branch supplied, turning the chair and sitting so his back was to the wall and he could see the entrances. "That one always took a while."

Ruby shrugged. "Rural law enforcement." She handed him a second box. He heard the door open while he was in the file room.

"Where's Walter Longmire?" Malachi Strand planted himself in front of Ruby's desk. "Nobody has been out to investigate the plumbing pipe missing from our supplier Iron Range Plumbing. We called three hours ago."

Ruby stood. "Now, Mr. Strand, I have the report right here . . ."

Strand moved closer to the woman, looming over her.

"Is the thief still on the premises?" Branch emerged from the file room.

"Why Deputy, excuse me, Rancher Connally," Strand sneered, "this is a police matter, if you'll excuse us."

"I don't think I will. Back off." He crossed his arms, and stepped between Strand and Ruby. "Ruby, do you have Mr. Strand's non-emergency call logged and dispatched?"

"Well, yes, Branch, Ferg is going there next after . . ."

"Mr. Strand, your call has been logged and assigned to a deputy who will come take your statement as soon as he finishes with the calls ahead of you."

"Connally, you don't speak for the Sheriff . . ."

"Maybe not," Branch retorted coolly, "but it doesn't take much to imagine what Sheriff Longmire will say when he finds out you physically intimidated a civilian employee of this office." Branch stepped closer to the casino's security chief. "Barring emergency, Deputy Ferguson will investigate your call this afternoon. If that's not soon enough, you can take it up with Walt."

"Rest assured; I will, Rancher Connally." Strand paused in the doorway. "Rest assured; I will."

Branch stood statue-still until the door had closed. "You okay, Ruby?"

He heard her chair squeak. "Yes."

He lowered himself into the visitor's chair, head against the wall behind him, eyes closed. "Now there's something I don't miss."

"What?"

"Arrogant assholes."

Ruby snorted.

"I know; I used to be one." He inhaled deeply. "Still am on a good day." A tremor shook him.

"Are you okay?"

"I picked a great day to forget my meds." Branch grimaced, then inhaled again. "May I ask you a question, Ruby?"

She continued filing cards. "Depends upon what it is."

"How long did it take?"

"What, Branch?"

"How long did it take Walt and Henry to get over the war?"

"Long enough for Lucian to get so tired of picking Walter up that he hired him. He said it made it easier to keep an eye on him."

Branch opened his eyes and smiled wanly.

"There wasn't any support for them when they came home, Branch. It took a while: months for Henry, years for Walter, I'm not sure Gip ever has."

"Well, shit." He felt her disapproving look, and opened his eyes to confirm it. "Sorry."

"There was no magic, Branch. It took time, hard work, and a lot of patience from a lot of people."

Branch startled at the sound of a boot on the stair but settled when he recognized it.

"Hey, Ruby, hey, Branch." Ferg greeted cheerfully.

"Ferg, have you been to Iron Range Plumbing yet?"

"Just dropping something off . . ."

"Brownies or cookies?" Branch asked with a grin.

"Um," Ferg hesitated. "Brownies."

"Lucky." Branch leaned back in the chair. "They're the best."

"Did you find the casserole?" Ferg was so guileless.

Branch tilted his head toward Ruby. "Yeah, Ferg, I did. Thanks."

"Iron Range Plumbing, Ferg," Ruby reminded and Ferg waved as he walked out the door. "Every queen has her minions."

It started as a chuckle, but blossomed into a laugh which lasted until tears rolled down his face.

He jerked alert when more steps sounded on the stairs, but relaxed when he recognized them, too. As they neared the top of the stairs, he stood. Ruby, stood, too, tugging on his arm so she could plant a quick kiss on his cheek. "Remember, Branch: time, hard work, and patience."

He squeezed her arm, then set his hat on his head.

"Ruby," Walt Longmire held the door open for Deputy Vic Moretti, "what's taking so long with this Iron Range Plumbing?"

"Ferg is on his way, Walter."

"Thanks," he stopped short. "Branch, are you okay?"

Good God, he was tired of that question. "Yup."

"So what are you doing here?" Vic asked from her desk.

Branch cut a glance at Ruby, and smirked. "Your job."

Both Walt and Vic looked too flummoxed to speak.

"Have a good day, Ruby," he called from the door.

"You, too, Branch. You, too."


	7. 416 Days

He sighed as his head sank into the pillow. The drive to and from Billings had been slushy and tiring, and the group session had been grueling. All he could think about was sleep-hopefully without dreams.

Of course the phone rang.

"Hi, Branch," Cady Longmire chirped.

"Cady, it's," he peered at his watch, "10 o'clock."

"You never go to bed this early."

"I'm a rancher now."

The line went so quiet he thought she'd hung up.

"So how was group?"

Long. Hard. He sighed. "Are you in a safe place?"

"Yeah-"

"Are you plannin' to stay there?"

"Yeah-"

He felt sleep lowering on him, closing him in. "Good night, Cady."

The next morning he awoke groggy and grouchy, neither of which was improved by the cold rain pelting outside. He fed the horses, then settled at the kitchen table with another cup of coffee and the ranch budget. He felt-well, he would if he could actually feel any emotion-a grain of pride that actually had a budget now, instead of hoping he had enough to pay the rent, fill the gas tank, and feed the horses and maybe himself. It wasn't much of one, but enough, if he was really careful, to start building up his breeding program. Amedei was round and solid now, and would foal come summer. By next month he would have enough saved up to order a DNA test on Jake, the rescue chocolate flax he'd ended up adopting, to confirm he was a Rocky Mountain horse. Jake and Amedei would be the start to a fine line, he thought.

He entered a number of scenarios into his spreadsheet, stopping in between each to check his phone: no call from Cady. Why would there be? He'd been a jerk last night. After a couple of hours he realized he wasn't really concentrating-and why-and with an exasperated, "Oh, hell," made the drive into Durant.

He parked on the opposite side of the square and walked around to her office where the secretary waved him back. He found her eating a salad, fork in mid-air.

"I'm sorry about last night." They both said at the same time, then smiled sheepishly.

"Group is really hard, Cady, and, between it and the drive, I don't have much left afterward."

"Okay." She stirred her salad. "Would it help if I drove you?"

No. Yes. No. Hell. He swallowed hard. "Cady, my father hired David Ridges to kill your mother because of me." His eyes searched her office before locking on her shocked face. "I don't think that's something either of us is going to get past."

Her fork dropped into her salad. "Your father hired David Ridges to kill my mother because of some feud between him and my father, Branch. I'm not sure you had a lot to do with it."

"If I hadn't decided to run for sheriff . . ."

"He'd have found another excuse."

"Maybe. But . . ."

She stood and walked around her desk. "But, nothing, Branch. I long ago disassociated you from your father in the character department." She put her hand on his arm. "I just want to help."

He froze, anger welling up inside of him, adrenaline pumping up his heart rate, his breath shortening. "David ridges shot me 417 days ago, Cady. You're 416 days too late."

The next thing he remembered, he was in his car, berating himself for screwing up a simple apology. He turned the key and his truck rumbled to life. He pointed it toward the ranch, but the truck ended up at the Red Pony. He debated for a moment, the rain had become sleet and tick-tick-ticked on the truck's roof, before pushing his way through the swinging doors and taking the "safe" stool at the end of the bar-the one where his back was against a wall.

"You look like a drowned cat." Henry wiped the counter in front of him and deposited a bowl of peanuts and a dry bar towel.

Branch draped his feed-company baseball cap and barn coat over the hook behind him and buried his face in the towel. "Coffee."

"Will you be drinking it or wearing it?"

"What will get me warmer faster?" He raked the towel through his hair.

"Drinking."

Draping the towel around his neck, Branch wrapped his hands around the mug for a moment before taking a wincing sip. He set the mug down and wrapped his hands around it again, staring at the picture of Cady on the wall behind the bar.

Henry followed his line of sight. "Is there a reason you are soaking wet?"

Branch sipped again, again wincing. "Annus horribilis."

"I never took you for an Anglophile, Branch."

"I'm not; it just sounds better than saying 'shitty year.'"

"It has been that." He sipped from his own mug. "For both of us."

"Yeah, it has."

Henry topped off his mug, then worked his way down the bar, refilling other mugs and glasses before returning to his. "Much of which is my own fault." He shivered.

"Really? Other than refusing to stop investigating his suicide, how was it your fault that David Ridges shot you?"

"That wasn't," he acknowledged with a nod, "but pretty much everything after that."

Henry propped both hands on the counter and leaned forward, speaking softly, "Branch, PTSD . . "

"I knew what I was doing."

"Branch . . ."

"At least at first, I could have-should have-stopped, especially before I coerced you for information about the peyote dealer." Branch wrapped his hands tighter around the mug. "I'm sorry about that."

Henry nodded and toasted Branch with his coffee mug. "Well, here's to annus mirabilis."

He stopped by Gip Howard's place and fed the horses. The rain was turning to sleet and, by the time he fed the animals and spoke a minute with Gip, he was shivering again. When he reached to turn up the heater in his truck, he spotted a bridle in the floorboard. Gip had been under the weather for a week or two and Branch had been feeding the horses, even on the days he wasn't working. Every couple of days, something would just appear either in the truck bed or the floorboard. He'd tried to return the first item-an old, but still very usable, horse blanket-but the old rancher had insisted that he'd not be beholden to anyone. Tonight's gift was old, but lovingly maintained-perfect for Amedei.

By the time he reached his own ranch, wind was whipping the sleet against the windshield. He pulled his truck close to the stable and fed his own horses, before pulling around to the house. There were lights on inside and the aroma of something delicious-chili?-met him as he opened the door.

"Are you hungry?" Cady called from the kitchen. "I made some - are you okay?"

He moved to the fireplace, arms wrapped tightly around him. "What are you doing here, Cady?"

She rushed to the fireplace. "You're soaked." She pushed him into the tiny bathroom and turned on the shower. "You've got to get out of those."

He shrugged out of the coat, which plopped wetly on the floor. Dizzily, he held on to her shoulders while he toed out of his work boots and she peeled off the socks. Shirt, jeans, thermals, one by one, joined the others until she pushed him into the steaming shower. He planted both hands on the wall and let the water stream over him. He could hear her moving around.

"What are you doing here, Cady?" he said hoarsely, then coughed deeply.

"Making up for lost time." She examined the fingers on one hand. "I don't see any frostbite."

"No frostbite, Cady. Just cold."

By the time he could feel the water cooling, Cady had pulled the shower curtain and was handing him a towel. "Can you handle this?"

He nodded, drying then donning the sweats she had left for him. A glance as he passed the mirror revealed the cause for her alarm: eyes red-rimmed, dark circles.

He opened the door to a steaming mug of tea. He scowled at the mug.

"I know you don't like it, but drink it anyway." She wrapped a blanket around his shoulders and pushed him into the bed where she piled pillows high behind him and blankets high over him. She disappeared for a moment, then returned with a steaming mug of chili.

"Cady, I'm not really hungry . . ."

"You need to eat, at least a little," she cajoled.

By the time he had eaten a few bites, she had returned and traded him his prescription for the chiĺi mug. He downed the pills and allowed himself to be tucked into bed. She disappeared-he could hear noises from the kitchen. In the twilight between waking and sleep, he felt the bed dip with her weight, then warmth as she folded herself around him

.

"Sleep," she whispered, and he did.

He remembered only snippets from the next day, before waking shakily on Saturday. "Horses," he grunted, trying to rise, but Cady easily pulled him back into bed.

"Fed."

"Gip's, too?"

"Taken care of."

He drifted back to sleep into a nightmare. Just as Barlow pulled the trigger, he awoke to Cady's whispering mantra, "It's okay; you're safe."

He rolled onto his back, forearm across his closed eyes, gasps slowing while she stroked his cheek.

"Is that how they are?" She asked quietly.

"Yeah," he said hoarsely. "Are you back, Cady? For good?" He swallowed hard. "Cause if you're not, you need to leave now."

She sat up. "Why?"

"Because if I let you in again, and you leave again, I don't think I'll make it."

The bed creaked as she got up and he could hear her clothes rustling as she dressed.

He sat on the foot of the bed, elbows on his knees. After she finished packing, she stepped close pulling his face into her belly, hand stroking his hair. She took his hand and he followed her to the door. "Thank you for taking care of me, Cady."

"416 days too late."

Branch Connally got up on Sunday morning, dressed, took his regular seat in church, and began his life without Cady. Except-she slid into the seat next to him. He tilted his head and cocked an eyebrow at her, but she ignored him throughout the mass. After, she did not speak to him-just drove away.

Baffled, he stopped by Gip's on the way back to the ranch then found a new piece of furniture on his front porch: Martha Longmire's rocking chair. The lights were on inside and a delicious smell greeted him as he opened the door.

"How do you keep getting in my house?"

Cady-in faded jeans and, he would wager, his shirt- grinned at him, but kept stirring. "You always keep a spare key in your porch light. I took it and made a copy."

He shook his head and shrugged out of his suit coat. When he went to hang it up, he found Cady's clothes in the closet next to his. He put on his own faded jeans and a long-sleeve tee. "Why did you come back, Cady?" He stood in the kitched door, hands stuffed in his pockets.

"I didn't want to spend another day failing you."

"Pity's not gonna carry us through . . ."

"No, it's not," she turned off the burner.

He hung his head. "Cady . . ."

She stood tall, eyes flashing, "Do you know why I made all those stupid rules?"

He shook his head.

"Because when I looked at you, I saw a lifetime with blue-eyed boys and sandy-haired girls and that terrified me." She hooked her fingers in his front belt loops. "But I'm not afraid anymore."

He wrapped his arms around her, soaking in her warmth, thanking God for . . . Gravel popped out front and he startled.

Cady peeked around him. "Dad's here."

"Walt's here?"

She pulled her jacket from the front closet and handed him his. "With my horse."

"With your horse?"

"Yeah. We have a stall open, don't we?"

"We?" Her hair was like flame in the sunlight and he saw, in his mind's eye, a glimmer of red-haired boys and blue-eyed girls. "Uh, yeah."

"Hey, Punk," Walt Longmire hugged his only daughter, catching Branch in a gaze that was a warning.

Branch eased the horse out of the trailer, "Thanks for bringing her out, Walt." He led Cady's mare toward the stable. Cady sidled up beside him and hooked her fingers in his belt loops; he draped an arm across her shoulders.

"I was, uh, a little surprised at first when she told me," he followed them into the stable where Cady's mare contentedly found her stall, " but now I can see Cady was right to bring her here."

Contrition darkened his expression as Walt pulled his coat closer against the November chill while walking back to the Bullet, Cady and Branch following. He opened the door then looked back at them-Cady leaning back against Branch who was leaning back against the porch rail, wrapping his coat around them both-and smiled. "She's right where she belongs."


End file.
